


we're a beautiful, astronomical mess

by thenightwatch



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: AOS, AU, Bakery, F/F, Fluff, Romance, Sorry Not Sorry, a little bit of angst, and I mean completely so, artist, baker - Freeform, cinnamon, cuteness, just a little something, ladiessss, skimmons - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-06 06:50:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3125045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thenightwatch/pseuds/thenightwatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skye's been waiting for her break into the British art scene, and now her renowned agent - Melinda May - has set her up a meeting in a gallery in one of the biggest art scenes in the country. The potential outcome - a year long exhibition in the heart of Manchester city. Already a name in indie circles in the states, this could be big for her.<br/>What Skye doesn't expect, however, is falling for baker who's just as passionate about her craft as she is about hers.</p><p>Complete AU. Hopefully with some loveliness to make you squee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skye

**Author's Note:**

> I don't own any of these characters, although I wish I did, because I'd make all our little gay dreams come true with loveliness of Skimmons.
> 
> Romance, ladies. Art. Cake. Chocolate. Flour kisses. Paint streaks.
> 
> All of which, I endeavour to include.

I've always been an artist. Ever since I knew the definition. It came from defiance, at first. Each home I was sent to, became a fresh sheet of crisp, white, paper - each wall a place to make my mark.

I guess that even as a little girl I was desperate for someone to remember me.

Unfortunately, art has a way of dividing opinion, especially when it comes in the form of abstract coloured streaks in manilla middle class houses. Hence why I bounced around the foster system during my childhood, until I found my own feet in my teens, bought myself a van and some paints, and starting selling my canvases online.

I had an agent by the age 20. Melinda May, owner of the most notorious gallery in Boston. Her status as a procurer of art was legendary, and I knew I was lucky to have caught her attention.

I would be ever more thankful for her in the coming year. I just didn't know that yet.

***

The knock on the outside of my van was abrupt, loud enough to wake me. I'd fallen asleep on top of my sketchbooks, again. Ink was streaked across my fingers, smudged across frantic looking lines on the paper beneath my hands.

"Skye? Get up. I have something important to tell you."  
I shoved my wild hair out of my eyes, and got up to open the door. It slid open with a bang, and I blinked in the harsh daylight.

"May? What's up? Please tell me you brought coffee."  


May silently handed over a large Americano, before lighting a cigarette. "We're going to Manchester next week. I've organised a meet with a gallery owner over there. There's the potential for you to hold an exhibition over there for a year. Could be a big deal, we'd be able to launch your work in the UK."

"You're joking."

"I'm not." May cracked a rare smile. "Get packed, Skye. I have no idea when you'll be back."  


"What about the gallery here?"  


"I can run it from anywhere. I've been wanting to establish better links with British artists for a while." May looked at me critically, in my paint splattered dungarees and cut up rolling stones vest. She looked impeccable in her usual black get up and leather jacket. "We'll get you something more appropriate to wear when we get over there. You can park your van at mine."

"You mean this isn't what you wear to a big shot meeting in the UK? Damn."

I took a long sip of coffee. I know I'll do anything May asks; she's right, this could be a big deal. At the moment, I'm an infamous name, an artist who no one has actually ever seen. But I would be willing to sacrifice that anonymity for a year long exhibition. And in another country... I was buzzing with excitement. I smiled at May brightly; "I better get started then!"


	2. Jemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An introduction to the Marmalade bakery and famous cinnamon swirls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'll try to put a song that I've been listening to at the beginning of each chapter. Here's the first:
> 
> The Chain - ft. Orla Gartland and Lauren Aquilina: http://youtu.be/7K7s22SOlXc
> 
> Also I will mention now that I will take a little artistic liberty with actual places etc. Also not sure if Ward will even make an appearance in this story.

I've always found something soothing in kneading dough. That morning, I picked a large ball of it up, folded it gently, before putting it back down on the floured board, and pressing my knuckles into it. I loved this time of day. It was 5am, and the soft orange light of dawn was streaming through the windows of the shop. There was another hour until we'd open. The Northern Quarter of the city was quiet at the moment, it wouldn't be long until it was alive with the jingle of cyclists, people going to work, children on their way to school.

I wrapped the dough, leaving it to rise in the warmth of the open kitchen. Dusting my hands off on my denim apron, I looked around the room. I loved my bakery, from its stone floors and wooden walls, to the old glass windows and the battered looking wooden counter. I still remembered Fitz's reaction to the place when I'd first bought it.

_"Oh Simmons, it's lovely, but don't you think it's a bit..."_ _"A bit what?"_  
 _"Well, hipster."_  
 _"Oh but Fitz! That's what I love about it. And you can't own a bakery in the Northern Quarter that isn't. It'll fit right in!"_  
 _"You're right of course. You know I'll support you in whatever you do."_

Fitz and I had been friends our whole lives. We'd been living together until I bought this place; "The Little Marmalade Bakery". Now I lived in the attic flat above the shop, where the smells of baked goods permarated everything. Not that I minded. I adored my job.

I took the cinnamon swirls out of the oven, catching my wrist on the hot tray as I did so. 

"Shoot," I rushed my wrist under the cold tap, but a short red line still rose prominently across the pale skin there.  
"Ouch, ow, ow."

There was a knock on the door and I looked up at the clock: five past six. I was late opening. I switched off the tap and shook my arm dry, smiling brightly at the gentleman at the door. I walked over and flipped the sign to 'open' before unlocking the bolts and letting him in.

"Good morning Trip,"

"Jemma!" Trip wrapped an arm around me and gave me a quick hug. "Good morning, it's nice to see you. I mean, I haven't seen you since..."

"Since yesterday." I laughed and ducked away from him. Moving to back behind the counter. "What can I get you?" 

"Are those cinnamon buns just out?"

"Yes,"

"Six of those then please."

I wrapped them and he passed me his change. He made a show of smelling them dramatically when I gave them over. "Oh Jems, you really do make the best things ever."

"You're too kind to me. What's going on in the gallery today? Got someone new?"

"We do actually, an artist from Boston area, her work is pretty alternative. We think she'll fit in here. She's meeting Phil with her agent today, but I think he definitely wants her art in. It's very cool."

"I look forward to seeing it."

"Oh I'm sure we can do better than that for own favourite baker extraordinaire. I'll get you tickets to the opening." 

My heart did a little skip, "that would be wonderful of you!"

"You'll bring Fitz yeah?" Trip smiled sheepishly.

"Of course. Just let us know."


	3. Skye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jetlagged Skye and the overindulgence of pastries.
> 
> ...but cinnamon! 
> 
> (Maybe cinnamon and me is my OTP I don't know)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, if you're reading this, here's an overly enthusiastic hello! You fantastic bean you! Here, have a cookie. Or ten.
> 
> Lee DeWyze "Don't Be Afraid": http://youtu.be/AIe5Rf1gJ_c
> 
> Skimmons next chapter! 
> 
> (Also wishing that it was this easy to be a fabulous artist IRL)

Nerves were getting to me. The meeting was today, and we'd only just arrived, having been delayed for a few hours. I was both jetlagged and jittery from the sheer amount of caffeine I'd consumed in the past 24 hours. I was completely overwhelmed by the whole experience of travelling over to Manchester airport by plane and suddenly being in England. It hadn't been a quick journey, but it had felt like it. 

I followed May as she meticulously made her way through the busy crowds. My shoulders ached from the weight of my rucksack, and I rolled them. _I hope the paintings made it here okay._ We'd sent them ahead of us, straight to the gallery. My stomach gave a funny flip; I was quite protective of my canvases. I just hoped that none of them had been damaged on the way here.  
May looked completely at ease here, even as I felt more and more out of place.  
"Have you been here before?" I asked her.

"Plenty of times. A dear friend of mine lives here."

I raised an eyebrow, surprised. "Is he English?"

"No, he moved here a few years ago. We'll be meeting him later."

It took a moment for my tired brain to catch up with what she had just said. "Wait, what?"

"It's his gallery."

"Oh." Now I was really nervous. 

"Don't worry, he's not as much of a hardass as me."

***

A couple of hours later we'd rushed though checking in at hotel - both beautiful and in the centre of the city - and May had found me something she deemed appropriate for me to wear. I fiddled with the end of my cream silky sleeves. I'd slung my unruly hair into a messy bun, and hoped my makeup concealed the shadows under my eyes. May looked impeccable as usual, and as we walked into a very modern looking building I was suddenly glad for her foresight into wardrobe choices.

A handsome man greeted us as we entered, and I was surprised at his American accent. "Good morning, May," He turned to me, and held out a hand, "and you must be Skye. Very nice to me you, I'm Trip."

I shook his hand, "Likewise. This is a very impressive looking gallery." I said, looking around.

He dropped my hand and gestured eagerly, "Just wait until you see the main room. It's awesome."

"It truly is." I whipped around to see a slightly shorter man dressed in a dark grey suit walking towards us, his eyes twinkling.

"Phil,"

"Melinda May, it's been too long." Phil hugged May before speaking to me. "Skye, how very nice to meet you. I'm Phil Coulson. I'm looking forward to seeing more of your work and speaking with you."

"Thank you."

He clapped his hands, "Now then, let's get started. I think we'll go to the main room first. It is, as Trip put it, _awesome._ "

***

"Oh My God, these are amazing!" Phil had shown us the top room, a beautiful, white walled space with original wood flooring. Windows captured views of the city from every compass point. It was empty, apart from a couple of large leather sofas and a coffee table in the centre of it. It was here that Trip and I were now sat, whilst I fell in love with a pastry.

"I know. It's the cinnamon right? It just melts."

"Trip, even if I _had_ eaten in the past sixteen hours, these would still be the best things I had ever tasted." I sighed happily. I was exhausted, but today had gone so well. Better than I could have hoped for. Phil had known of my work whilst he was in the states, and was passionate about it, wanting to bring it over to the UK as soon as possible. My art would be decorating these walls in a few short weeks, and the exhibition would run for a year, finishing in the Spring. May would be staying with Phil during that time, popping back to Boston occasionally. I'd been offered a studio in the building, something that excited me immensely. I was going to live in this wonderful building for a _year_.

"I know the baker, she's a friend." Trip's voice cut through my thoughts.

I licked the crumbs off my fingers. "You must get amazing birthday cakes."

He laughed, "Yeah, it's definitely a perk. She owns a bakery in the Northern Quarter. About ten minutes away from here, I'll have to show you sometime. I get pastries from there practically every day."

"Oh please. She sounds _magical_." Trip only laughed as I grabbed the last pastry off the plate.


	4. Jemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Muffins. Also it's the best thing Skye has ever had in her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paul Otten - Girl You're Alright: http://youtu.be/1HQK9IhqNsk
> 
> Pretty ladies and cake. Yes.

"Have you got any of those iced fingers?"

"Yeah, and a poppy seed loaf? Mum wants one."

It was a Tuesday lunchtime in the shop, and as usual, I had been inundated with regulars all morning. Two young boys stood waiting patiently at the counter whilst I dished out their order, slipping an extra cake in and winking at them. "Shush. You didn't see anything."

"No Miss Simmons."

"Thanks Miss!"

As I waved them away, I caught sight of young woman stood in the doorway, watching me. Her dark hair was half undone, falling wildly from its supposed bun. She was wearing a pair of ruined dungarees, under which was an oversized Queen t-shirt. She was covered in streaks of paint, and smiling.

"Guess I fit in here; huh?" _American._ The woman gestured at me, and I looked down to my flour speckled apron. 

I laughed, "I guess so."

She walked over to the counter, with her hands in her pockets, when she reached it I noticed a paintbrush tucked behind her left ear. There was a blue stripe across her cheekbone, it accentuated her dark brown eyes. _Like chocolate,_ I thought. _Well, she's quite pretty isn't she?_

"You're Jemma right?" I was momentarily taken aback by her use of my first name. It must have shown on my face, because she continued hurriedly; "I know Trip, I mean, I met him this week and he told me that you were Queen baker here or something. I had one of your cakes the other day - like three actually - and it was the best thing I've ever put in my mouth." She stopped suddenly, looking a bit embarrassed.

I raised an eyebrow at her and tried not to giggle.

"Oh God, did I really just say that?"

"I'm afraid so."

The woman put a hand to her face briefly before taking a deep breath and holding it out for me to shake over the counter. "Let's start again shall we? My name is Skye, I just moved here, and I am in _love_ with your mad bakery skills already."

I smiled and took her hand, gasping a little at a little shock on contact. I let go quickly, noting her surprise.  
"Thanks for the compliment, it's lovely to meet you."

"It is?"

"Of course." Skye beamed at me. _Beautiful. Not pretty, stunning._ My stomach did a little flip.

"So Skye, what can I get you?"

"Have you got anything warm?"

"Blueberry yoghurt muffins in about..." I checked my watch; "ten minutes?"

"I think I can wait for those."

I wiped down the counter as Skye perched on one of the old stools I had out front. She pulled out a journal from her dungarees and started scribbling furiously.

"So, I'm assuming that you're the new artist that will showing in the Playground?"

"Yeah. I'm really lucky. I'll have the exhibition up in under a month, it's exciting, but really scary too." Skye laughed at herself quietly. "I'm being such a baby about it. I think it's because I'm not at home..."

"How are you finding Manchester?"

"I haven't really found anything yet. This is the first time I've left the studio in a week - I'm staying there."

"Oh, well, you'll have to check out some of the local vintage shops, and of course, Affleck's Palace, which is definitely one of the best places to shop in the city. And spitalfields, oh and there's a fantastic cocktail bar -"

"Whoa there," Skye held up her hands, "I think you'll have to write those down for me. With directions."

I blushed, "Yes, here I will." I pulled off a roll of paper from the till and scrawled across it loopily. ""You're definitely staying in my favourite part of the city. There are some of the best places to hang out here."

An odd look crossed Skye's face, and she hesitated for a moment before; "Well, this is a bit awkward, but, I don't actually know anyone here to go anywhere with. I've literally only just met the people at the gallery."

"Aren't you here with someone?" I was surprised.

"Just my agent. And we don't exactly hang out in that way."

I was hit by sudden inspiration, and I found myself speaking before my brain had time to catch up; "Well, I could introduce you to a few people if you like. So many different people come through here. You'll always be welcome here too."

Skye looked up into my eyes, and when she did, I couldn't quite breathe coherently. "Thank you."

"You're most welcome."

The timer for the muffins went off, and I turned gratefully towards the oven, feeling a little rattled. _Don't get caught up Jemma, you don't know anything about her._

I placed a few of the warm muffins in a small box and passed them over to Skye. "These are on the house."

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"Thank you! I'll get back to the studio now. I'll see you tomorrow?"

"I'll be here." She smiled at me brightly and left the shop, almost walking into Fitz as he walked in.

"Who was _that?_ "

"A new regular I think." But I knew that was a lie, I wanted to get to know Skye better. I wanted to be her friend.

And that wasn't completely truthful of me either.


	5. Skye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skye experiences the unpredictability of British weather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note; I'm writing this as and when I can, without really checking it. I just really want to write this story, and I'll probably edit it properly when it's finished. (I'm not sure how long it's going to be yet)
> 
> London Grammar - Hey Now: http://youtu.be/3u_U6FC0PC8

The apartment smelt like blueberries and oil paint. I was sat by the wall of glass that dominated it, easel propping up a large canvas that I was growing increasingly frustrated with. _Honey and gold, that's what this is._ I'd spent the last two years with a palate that spanned cool colors; greens and blues. I'd wanted people to swim in my canvases, those deep, dark places, so like the ocean. This, this was different. This was something you could drown in.

My heart felt like it was hiccuping in my chest, an unsteady beat. _They're her colors. You know that, right?_ I sighed, dropping my brush with a clatter onto the plate beside me. It'd been a long time since I'd felt like this. I'd walked into the Little Marmalade Bakery more than excited about the prospect of food, only to find myself faced with a very beautiful baker. Not only was Jemma that, she was also kind. Kind enough to offer to help me out with getting to know the city and new people. I wasn't good with feelings, but it was hard when my art reflected them back at me like a mirror.

I had seen Jemma for the first time today, her lovely hair tied back in a ponytail, wisps of it falling delicately around her pale face. Her lips were flushed pink from biting them, cheeks stained with the pretty blush of someone who had been working hard all morning. I'd had to steady myself with a hand on the doorframe.  


_Holy crap. She's gorgeous. Didn't mention that did you Trip?_ I'd been conscious, suddenly, of my paint splattered hands and face, until I'd noticed her floured apron.  


I was going back tomorrow. I tried to convince myself I was just doing so for the cakes.

***

When I left the studio, the sun was still bathing the streets in its golden hues, which is why, halfway to bakery, I was shocked at the quickness of the weather change. Rain pounded the pavement aggressively, and my over sized tee did absolutely nothing to protect me.

When I finally reached the shop door, I was soaked through to the skin, clothes clinging to my body. I pushed through it, relieved, until I see that Jemma isn't alone. _It's a bakery, you tool. She isn't going to be here on her own all the time._ Trip and another man, stood at the counter, both turning around as I entered. I recognized the shorter man's curly hair and friendly face, wondering where from, before remembering we'd walked into each other yesterday.

"You alright Skye? Looking a bit damp there..." Trip smiled.

I grabbed a handful of hair and twisted the water out of it, and the sound of the water hitting the floor made him laugh. "Yeah, I'm just fine thanks. Wet."

Jemma came out from behind the counter, holding out a brightly checkered towel. Her face was set in a little frown; "Are you okay? I guess this is your first experience of British weather isn't it? Oh gosh you're shaking, here-"

Before I could register what was happening Jemma had led me to a side of the room I hadn't noticed before now, unlocking what looked like a stable door and leading me up a set of tiny stairs. "You can get out of your clothes and dry yourself off up here." She let go of my arm quickly and grabbed a pale blue shirt, jeans and a gray jumper off a clothing rack and passed them to me. "They should fit you, I think. Come down when you're ready."

And just like that she was off back downstairs, and I was left, slightly bemused, standing in what seemed to be Jemma's living room.

There was a large cream sofa adorned with cushions and many, many blankets, a small (real) fireplace with a ragrug in front of it. What looked like photographs were collaged above the mantelplace. I shivered, remembered that I was actually freezing and quickly stripped and changed into Jemma's clothes. The jeans and shirt fit, but only just, and I was glad that she had a fondness for big jumpets. I wasn't not sure what to do with my wet clothes, so I hung them off the drying rack. I placed my converse underneath a radiator and my bare feet were cold on the hardwood floor.

I snuck a quick look at the photographs on the wall, noting that many of them have been developed by hand. There were faces I didn't know, but I recognized Trip and the man downstairs in them. There was one photo I was particularly drawn to, and my fingers reached out to trace the edges of it unconsciously. Jemma is the subject, and she's laughing, uncontrollably, the edges of her are blurred. Beautiful.

"I forgot to give you socks!" I jumped back at Jemma's voice, abashed. She was stood at the top of the stairs, fluffy blue and gray socks in hand.

"Are those... Ravenclaw socks?"

"Yes! You're a Potterhead!" She looked thrilled.

"I'm a what?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter. Here, take these and follow me. Something just came out of the oven that I think you'll like."


	6. Jemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings! Feelings. Tentative Simmons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chet Faker - I'm Into You: http://youtu.be/uPy5igZJnVw

"Here." I passed Skye a mug of hot chocolate.

"Oh thanks."

"You're welcome." I could see Fitz smirking out of the corner of my eye. I gesture towards him; "Skye, that's Fitz, my best friend. And of course you know Trip."

"The weather is worse in Scotland," Fitz announced. "It's very pleasant to meet you Skye."

"You too. I don't know many people here but Jemma's offered to introduce me to some."

"I bet you did." Trip whisper-coughed at me. I glared in response. He just laughed.

"Here grab a stool, I'm closing early anyway. No one else will come out in this weather." I bolted the door and flipped the sign as Sky sat next to Fitz, who was now explaining his job.

"I'm a photographer. But I also restore cameras, the film models. Sometimes I update them for modern use."

"Oh, did you take some of the pictures upstairs?"

"Yes, I developed a lot of them by hand too. Cameras are very reliable, they've got such wonderful mechanisms..."

"I'd love to see more of your photos." Fitz looked delighted at this comment, and continued with the ins and outs of developing film. Skye leaned onto the counter, cupping the pink mug of hot chocolate in her slender hands. Her hair was just started to dry in waves and half curls. I tried to look elsewhere, but it was difficult. The blue of my shirt offset against her skin perfectly, and my gaze was drawn to her bare wrists, where ochre flecks of paint dotted them like freckles. I wanted to touch them. 

"Earth to Simmons?" Trip waved in front of my face. "I heard tell you had Apple turnovers in that oven."

"I do! Sorry Trip. Just got to grab something out of the back room." I nipped into the pantry, closing the door quickly behind me. I felt heat rise across my cheeks.

"Damn it." I said the words softly under my breath. I hadn't felt this way about anyone, ever. Not that I had much experience... I'd known I was gay for a long time. It had been part of the reason I'd moved here, to Manchester. I'd hoped to find a partner here, or at least some friends. And whilst I'd managed to make some friends, I'd really struggled around girls. Not that I hadn't been asked out, I had. I'd always expected to feel more though, on those first dates. I wanted fireworks. Sparks. I was a romantic through and through.

 _Like this,_ I thought. _This ridiculousness._ I didn't believe at love at first sight. Lust though...I shivered. I was reading too much into this. I'd only know the woman since yesterday.

"Oh Simmons, you're being silly." I muttered to myself. "Stop overanalysing, or you'll ruin everything before it ever has a chance."

***

_\- One month later -_

Skye had been in every day that I was open in the past two weeks. She'd tried everything I had on display, and had become somewhat of an unofficial taster. I'd moved a small table next to the window for her, and there she sat, for a couple of hours each afternoon, sketching and telling me stories about her life on the road.

She told me about her childhood, bouncing around the foster system so much that she didn't get the opportunity make any lasting friends. That as soon as she got chance she started waitressing at a local bar, saving up for both the van and art materials. When she was finally able to paint on canvases, she found people liked them enough that she was able to quit her job. May had approached her after acquiring one of her paintings for her gallery, and they'd agreed to work together after that.

In turn, I told Skye about growing up in Sheffield ("Where's that?""Not far from here, we'll go sometime") and learning to bake from my grandmother. I'd known from an early age that I'd always wanted to be a baker. I spent two years in my late teens travelling Europe ("Sounds exciting." "It was an adventure!") and volunteering to work at any bakers or patisseries I came across. Subsequently, I'd come back to England very confident of my ability as a baker, moving to Manchester and opening The Little Marmalade Bakery by my early twenties. 

Seeing her became routine very quickly, and I looked forward to her visits, not least because she insisted on making me a cup of tea whilst I worked ("It's the least I can do.") and made me laugh with awful jokes ("Why did the birthday cake go to the doctor? Because it was feeling crumby!"). One such afternoon I'd just gotten over a fit of giggles when she invited me to the Playground.

"Would you like to see the studio?"

"Sure, when?"

"How about now?"

"As in right now?"

"Yeah." Skye smiled at me, dark eyes twinkling mischievously.

"Am I allowed in?"

"Hmmm, I think, technically no one is allowed in the main room during set up, but since the studio is through that, and Coulson said that I could use that space as I please..." She looked thoughtful. "Yeah, it should be alright."

"I'll get my coat."

***

Skye brought me into the building through a side entrance I hadn't noticed existed, avoiding the security guards and reception. I was now sure that I _definitely wasn't_ supposed to be here, but a sense of adventure had overtaken me, and I found that I didn't much care.

"Up here." Skye grabbed hold of my hand and led me up an industrial looks stairway. Bell shaped lamps with Edison bulbs lit the rooms. Skye stopped suddenly when we came to a red door. "Close your eyes."

"Why?"

"Because I don't want you to see until the opening."

"But the opening's in two days!"

"Doesn't mean you get a peek now."

"Alright, alright. Just, don't let go."

"I won't."

When I finalIy opened my eyes we were in the studio. Evidence of Skye was everywhere. Papers stuck to the walls, a few of her telltale t-shirts were slung over the back of a chair. A few books were in a stacked rather precariously on a small table. Blank canvases were stood against each other by the door, and what looked like a half finished painting was on a easel. It was a small space, opened up by the tall ceiling and wall of windows that dominated it.

"You can see Afflecks from here!"

"Where?"

"That building there. We'll go sometime, I promise."

Skye was quiet for a moment, then; "What do you think? I mean, I don't have a lot of stuff. You might have to help me go shopping at some point. I don't really do homey, at least not the way you do."

"It's lovely, Skye."

"I'm sorry its a mess. I was kind of impulsive inviting you over."

"It's fine, honestly." I smiled at her reassuringly; "do you have any tea?"

"I do actually. I bought some of that Earl Grey stuff you showed me the other day." Skye hustled off to make tea, and I wandered over to the wall of sketches. Some barely made sense, they were drawn out like some insane map of colours, words interspersed within them. I assumed that these were plans for some of her paintings. Others I recognised, like the front of the shop, a quick sketch of blue and grey which I presumed were my Ravenclaw socks, and then there were the sketches of people too, just small lines. And more abstract people, studies of hands, or smiles, wrinkled noses and bitten lips.

Skye tapped me on the shoulder, passing me my tea. "I don't really draw people, but sometimes you just have to draw what's in front of you."

"I like them." I said decisively. "Where are your big paintings?"

"You can't see those yet. I'm saving them."

"What if I offer you a basket of blueberry muffins?"

"Nope. Cake bribery won't work. You offer me something new practically every day anyway don't you?" She was teasing me. I looked down at my tea, blushing a little.

Something emboldened me; "Maybe I'm just soft for beautiful women." I was rewarded with a slightly astonished looking Skye.

"You're gay."

"Obviously."

"I had no idea." She looked stunned, as though she couldn't quite process the information, and doubt crept up on me. Maybe I'd read her wrong.

"Look, is this a problem? Because I can just leave." The idea of me leaving snapped her awake.

"No! I mean no, of course it's not a problem." A troubled look passed across her face. She stepped closer to me and gently took the mug of tea out of my hands, putting it down on the table beside us. She laced our fingers together with one hand, and touched my cheek with the other. I was breathless. She was close now, closer than she'd ever been. She spoke quietly; "I don't know what _this_ is. I wasn't sure that there was even a chance you were... An option. I was certain that you and Fitz-"

A bubble of laughter escaped me; "No, we're just friends. We've never been anything else."

"That's... Good. I really like being around you Jem." 

We were almost nose to nose now. I could really see her eyes for the first time, they were like chocolate, deep cocoa brown, with tiny flecks in them. Her hand had moved to the back of my hair, pulling it undone carefully and running her fingers through it. I bit my lip.

Skye stepped back, tucking some hair behind my ear. "You look beautiful with your hair down. You should wear it down more often." She looked nervous, and I realised that I hadn't said anything for a while. I couldn't get my mouth to work. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted to be wrapped up in her, so lost that time became meaningless to us. _You don't know her well enough for that. You can't give yourself to someone who's going to leave in a year._ Logical, rational Jemma Simmons, my own worst enemy.

Instead I took her hand back in mine, turned it palm up, and traced the latest streaks of paint across it and down her wrist. I pressed my lips very softly to the paler skin there, hearing her sharp intake of breath as I did so. "Jemma-"

I interrupted her; "I've got to get back. Can you walk me out?"

Skye looked dazed. "Um, yeah."

"Thank you for the tea, and showing me all this."

"Anytime."


	7. Skye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The exhibition opens, and a key person isn't there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for kudos and the like. Love you lot! I like unsure Skye, she's adorable.
> 
> MØ - Waste of Time: http://youtu.be/wFrth4NFogc

\- Two days later -

"Are you ready Skye?" I heard Trip call me from the main room.

"Just a minute."

Half an hour and the exhibition would be open. Over one hundred people were invited for the opening, just to see my work. Art critics, journalists, other curators. And yet all I could think about was Jemma Simmons. I stared at myself hard in the bathroom mirror, shaking my head at my reflection. _Stop it. You didn't do anything wrong._ I'd been going over the past couple of days meticulously, trying to figure out if I'd upset Jemma in some way. The bakery had been shut since... _since you told her you might have feelings for her._ I'd asked Trip if he'd heard anything from her, and he'd told me to chill out. Which I'd tried - and failed - to do.

I steadied my slightly shaking hand and applied my lipstick. I was usually pretty "chilled" about liking someone, unfortunately, my crush on Jemma seemed the exception to that rule. I had no idea if she'd even be at the opening, and yet I couldn't help but hope. Trip had invited both her and Fitz formally after I'd asked (although I had a suspicion he would have sneaked them in regardless).

I looked at my reflection critically one last time. May had insisted I wore black, and had picked me out a dress that clung to my curves. I wore my hair down (my hands itched to pull it up into a messy knot) and my make up was dark, with the exception of my lipstick; a brilliant, eye-catching crimson. I was ready to go. And as I left the apartment to meet Trip, my heart still betrayed me, with a rapid hiccup of nerves and hope that the person I actually wanted to see was here.

***

"How long have you been painting?"

"Oh, ever since I can remember. Although painting on house walls wasn't appreciated very much..." I was trying hard to maintain an interest when talking to the many strangers in the main gallery, but after an hour of constant shuffling from critic to curator, and fellow artist to journalist, my patience was wearing out rapidly. May caught my wandering gaze from across the room, and I rolled my eyes. She walked over and took me by the arm.

"Excuse me gentlemen, I just have to have a quick word with my client." 

May steered me to one of the large windows that opened onto the balcony. Fairylights were strung across the railings, small tables and chairs were placed intermittently across the space, candles flickered in jars that I'd dipped in paint to match the deep blues that dominated the canvases in the main part of my exhibition. Less people were here too, which I guessed was the main reason May have brought us here.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I think I'm just a bit overwhelmed. I don't like these kinds of people. I don't _fit_."

May looked at me carefully. "It's a bit more than that isn't it?" When I didn't say anything, she sighed, and I felt as though I'd disappointed here in some way. "Alright, take some time out. You've done enough buttering up anyway." She gave my shoulder a quick squeeze and then left me to join Coulson inside. 

I sat down at one of the little tables, kicking off my heels as I did so. I rifled through my bag and found a few hair grips, scooped up my hair and pinned it. _Better._

"I prefer it like that." A familiar voice came from behind me and I spun around in my chair.

"Jemma! I didn't think you were coming."

Jemma was wearing a pale blue tea dress, her hair was much shorter than when I'd last seen it, curled and falling round her face, held back only by a patterned silk scarf. She tucked a loose strand behind her ear, and smiled nervously.

"I'm really sorry Skye, I had to drive out to see a friend. She's broken up with her husband. She rang me and I just went, I didn't think and of course-" She stopped as I wrapped her in a hug, slightly taken aback. I didn't even realise that I'd gotten to my feet.

"I'm so glad you're here." I pressed my lips softly on the crown of her head, feeling her shiver as I did.

"Of course I was going to come. How could I pass up an actual ticket to the most anticipated art event this year?"

I stepped back, but didn't let go of her. I was captivated by her mouth, she'd worn a pale pink lipstick, it lined her lips perfectly. I couldn't look away. "You look beautiful."

"Oh, thank you. You do too. More than that, actual. You're wonderful." Jemma stopped abruptly and I laughed. An excitement that had been missing all evening suddenly overcame me. I wanted to show her everything. It was important, I realised. I'd never had anyone to show my art before, not a friend or...

"Have you seen the exhibition?"

"I've been in the main gallery, Trip said that there was more but that you haven't let anyone see it tonight. Oh Skye!" She put her cool hands on my face, and looked at me earnestly; "They are absolutely _wondrous_! It's like you could swim in them. It's as though you've brought the ocean inside. They're lovely."

I blushed, deeply. "Thank you. It means a lot that you like them." And it did mean a lot, more than I'd been willing to admit before I'd seen her that evening. "Would you like to see the second room?"

"I'd love to."

She chewed her lip a for a moment; "Um, Skye, don't forget your shoes."


	8. Jemma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jemma finally gets to see where those streaks of paint come from.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who knew that flavours could be so sexy? 
> 
> Eliza Hull - Echoes: http://youtu.be/eg8WMbfdYHc

Skye held my hand as we walked through to the next room, and I felt a small thrill at every curious glance our way. We finally stopped at a completely nondescript door near the stairs down to reception.

I heard Skye sigh softly as she unlocked it, and pushed it open. She pulled me inside after her and swiftly locked it behind us. I raised my eyebrows.

"I don't want anyone else to see this just yet. Only you. Look." She let go of me and gestured to the room. I turned away from her and did as she asked. I gasped, audiably, and felt my cheeks colour. _Oh my._

The room would have (should have) been dark, it's black walls swallowing any within it. It wasn't. Huge canvases dominated them, gold and ochre swirling through them, streaks of the palest blue peeking through their warmth. I couldn't even name all of the colours within them, but I knew that Skye had used many, many paints in their creation. I had been wrong, before. I had thought she had painted the ocean in the main gallery.

These were not the colours of the sea, but they were the ones I wanted to drown in.

I looked for name tags beneath them, finding none. I glanced over at Skye. "You haven't named them?"

"I wanted to keep something back. Something for us." She was gazing at me intensely. My mouth went dry.

I swallowed. "What are they called?"

Very deliberately, Skye walked to the furthest painting away from me, not breaking eye contact. "This one," she traced the side of a canvas shot through the deep browns and copper; "is Cinnamon." My heart skipped. _She didn't. She wouldn't._ She made her way towards me, naming each painting she passed. Eyes never leaving mine. My suspicions grew greater with every step, every word she said.

"This one's called Nutmeg." _She wouldn't name her art-_

"This, is Ginger."

_-after silly little things, flavours of-_

"Caramel."

_-all the times we'd spent laughing-_

"Blueberry."

_-getting to know one another-_

"Vanilla."

_-becoming something to each other-_

Skye was next to me now, and the biggest, most intricate canvas in the room. She laid a hand very gently on the centre of the canvas, her caramel skin beautifully stark against it. "This, is Marmalade."

_-She had._

And just like that, the logical, rational part of me shut down. She'd named them for me. I thought back over the last few weeks. Weeks that I'd spent convincing myself that I wasn't interested in the uncertainty of a relationship with the woman in front of me. Skye, soaked from the rain wearing my clothes, deep brown eyes like pools, paint flecked across her gorgeous skin. Skye, telling me all about her childhood, wanting to try everything I made, insisting on making me tea in the afternoons. Skye, in the apartment, fear of rejection flickering across her face, gaze stuck firmly on my lips... 

"I've been so bloody stupid."

"What-?" But Skye never got to ask. I closed the short distance between us and stood on my tiptoes to kiss her. I felt the tension we'd left unaddressed snap, the way spun sugar does when bent between hands, as though grateful to be lesser. I was only vaguely aware of mentally chastising myself for lipstick stains and I bit her lower lip very gently with my teeth, softly running my tongue along its shape as I let it go. 

It was a short kiss, but it left us both shivering when it finished, unsure where to put hands that wanted to roam (the waist) and wanting more contact still.

Skye licked her lips, smudged lipstick escaping perfect lines. I guess my hands must have gotten in her hair, because it was more tousled than usual. She was flushed, eyes bright and dark at the same time. _She's stunning._ She smiled; "So..."

"So, I just wanted to show you my gratitude for a wonderful evening and..." I glanced at the gallery walls.

"The paintings?" Skye raised an eyebrow.

"Very much so. And..." I kissed her cheek, leaving a smudge mark there. "I enjoy your company too. I'd like to spend more time with you."

"Seriously?"

"Completely. Slowly mind. I'm not good with rushing things." 

She nodded in agreement. "That would be good for me too."

I stepped back into her arms. We were both quiet for a moment then; "Jems?"

"Yeah?"

"Can we go to the bakery? I'm absolutely starving and I'm fed up of talking to know it all's. _Oh, darling this one's truly fabulous! Can you tell me whether you used Cobalt Turquoise or Manganese Blue Hue here? I can't quite tell..._ Oh pipe down you old bat. I can't even remember what I used." Skye huffed and I couldn't help but laugh.

"Well, I do have everything in for cinnamon scone bread..."

"Oh Jems. _Yes please._ "


	9. Skye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who wants to take it slow anyway?
> 
> BANKS - In Your Eyes (Peter Gabriel Cover): http://youtu.be/2_bDJod7F2o

\- Seven days later -

Sometimes time takes on a strange uncertainty. It becomes unclear as to whether it's speeding up or slowing down, either way, you can wish it would just stop. The next week was like that.

I was overwhelmed with the exhibition, fielding questions from all the interested parties in the first week, going out with May to promote it at various parties in the city. Playing the part. Time then passed with a ferocity I'd never experienced, and the day would be gone before I'd even gotten the chance to speak to Jemma. But I'd get back to the quarter, and find my feet taking me to her door, regardless of the time. She'd let me in, even if she was in her pajamas (an oversized flannel shirt and not much else), passing me a tea as she did so.

Time then would slow, and the night would be like a dream. Jemma would listen whilst I told her about my day, curled up on the sofa with a mug in her hands. Eventually, I would be distracted by the sight of her biting her lip, or the small expanse of pale collarbone visible as her shirt started to fall off her shoulders. I would have to get up and kiss her.

I wasn't pushy. It had been a long time since I'd been with anyone that I really wanted. We were going to take it slow. Sometimes I'd fall asleep on the sofa against her, and wake up to the smell of Jemma baking in the shop downstairs, woollen blanket covering me and my coat and shoes put away neatly. So was our routine, and even though it was usual, it was one that I quickly treasured.

Which was why, that night, I was especially pissed when I had to go back to my apartment without dropping in on Jemma, having had what can only have been described as a _major_ wardrobe malfunction.

"Fuck, why do I let you talk me into these things?" I glared at May, who, for once, was openly laughing at me.

"Because you need to make a good impression. And you usually dress like some street vagabond."

"Well I certainly made _an_ impression." May walked me to the building, we'd left Trip and Coulson at a black tie dinner at the city hall - at which, my rather beautiful full length gown had split after an ungainly slip on the stairs.

"Don't worry, at least it happened after the photographers had left."

"Small comfort May." We reached the Playground's entrance.

May looked serious for a moment. "I just want you to know, I'm proud of you. You've done so well over the past few weeks. Always remember that." She glanced through the glass door and smiled. "I won't keep you - you've got company." She gave me a quick squeeze on the shoulder and left.

I walked through the doors to reception, seeing a familiar figure on the sofa there. "Jemma?"

"Skye. I've been waiting for the past quarter of an hour."

"How did you know I'd be here?"

"May texted me."

"May has your number?"

"Yes, well, she's really rather partial to blueberry scones. Nice dress by the way, I like that bit." Jemma pointed to the large split up the side that ended just underneath my bra.

"Haha, very funny. Come on, I need to get changed."

***

It had been a while since I'd properly cleaned up the flat, and the painted mess where I'd rushed to finish my last canvas for the exhibition still took over most of the living room. Jemma wandered over to it, examining the palate there. "Careful, oil paints stain."

"I don't mind." She came back towards me, and took the clutch out of my hand, brushing the hair away from my face. "You do look beautiful tonight."

Something about the look in her eyes made me shudder. "Thank you."

Her fingertips slipped underneath the torn fabric on my side, grazing my waist. Goosebumps rose across my skin. _I want you._ "I should get out of this-"

"Let me help you with that." Before I could utter another word, Jemma kissed me, with more bite than before. She sucked on my bottom lip, and I was aware of my ruined dress sliding off my shoulders. Her lips found my collarbone, and much to my chagrin, I gasped. 

"We can stop anytime you want." Jemma murmered against my neck.

"I don't think that'll be a problem Jem. As long as you're..."

"You look stunning." She ran her hands down my sides, and pushed the rest of my dress off my hips. "You're a goddess." She kissed me on the lips hungrily, before tracing them along my jaw." So yes, I'm fine. I completely want this." Her hands slipped over my bra briefly and my stomach flipped. "I want _you._ "

At her words, I kicked off my heels, and pushed her back against the wall. My hands swiftly unbuttoned her shirt and I felt her shiver as I ran my hands over her body. Our kisses were fierce; hot, biting and soft all at the same time. 

Her pale skin was flushed, her lips a pink shock on her face. My mouth had already left a purpling bruise near the hollow of her neck. She smelt like cinnamon and ginger and spices that I couldn't identify. Her skin had a sweetness to it, like sugar. 

This is what I had painted. I'd been stuck within this since my first glimpse of her in that bakery. Jemma held the warmth of a Sun, she spun colors out that were as bright as the leaves in Fall, that felt like the summer heat.

It came to me then, I wanted to lose myself in everything that made up this woman in my arms. I'd drown in it, if I could.

We were suddenly on the floor, and Jemma had pulled down the pillows from the sofa. She lay beneath me, and our legs slid together. At some point she'd shed her skirt, the lace of her underwear slung low across her hipbones. Her bra equally delicate, only covering her chest. It occurred to me that she'd thought ahead to wear it. She had wanted me as much as I'd wanted her.

"We're not taking this slow."

"No. We're not." Jemma captured my mouth in a reassuring kiss. "You're too wonderful to waste, Skye."

And so I lost myself in everything that was Jemma Simmons, in all of her colours. I let her consume me. I let myself drown.


End file.
